Night Song in the City
by DrSallySparrow
Summary: When a psychopathic werewolf threatens everything the Hale/McCall pack has built over the last few years Stiles feels that his only option is to take off, setting in motion a chain of events that will change him and the whole Pack forever.
1. I Met a Girl Called Disillusionment

'Tell me, Stiles, what do you think happens to little boys who run around with wolves?' Delilah's lightly-accented voice is soft, her tone seductive. She trails her claws almost lazily across his naked abdomen, and brings her mouth to his ear. 'Do you think they vanquish Shere Khan, go back to the cave in the nighttime, snuggle up with Akela, and all is well with the world? Because it doesn't work like that.' The last word is punctuated with a nip at the sensitive skin of his earlobe and Stiles has to bury the wave of horror that rises in his throat with an eye-roll.

Seriously, Delilah? I love the Jungle Book. You're going to ruin The Jungle Book for me?'

It occurs to Stiles, as Delilah smiles her wide and horrible smile at him, that he should be much more scared right now but he's too busy being mad. Not so much because she's butchering his favourite childhood stories, more the whole having-him-trussed-up-in-the-storeroom-of-the-grocery-store thing. That's what's making Stiles really angry. He strains against the ropes holding his wrists once more, shaking his arms and humming his frustration, barely realising it comes out as more of a growl, and Delilah throws her head back and laughs.

'You can't free yourself, little boy. You can't escape what is coming.' All at once her tone is serious, her black eyes glinting at him in the low light. Stiles is annoyed that she isn't showing even a flash of alpha red. Annoyed, because it's better than being fucking terrified by how in control she is, which is the other option. He grits his teeth and lets his weight dangle for a second, lean muscle built over two years of werewolf shenanigans cording out along the length of his arms. There's the barest slip of rope against the sweat on his wrists - but then Delilah's claw is back against his sternum and he lets his feet fall to the ground.

Their faces are so close together that Stiles can feel her breath on his neck, and he's careful to tuck his chin. No fucking way he's going to show even a hint of submission. That smile is back on Delilah's face, and she presses her claw into his skin, making him wince, 'Things cannot stay as they are, Stiles, you have to see that? There will be war soon, between the wolves and the hunters, and,' She pauses, lets her claw move across his ribs, cutting through the flesh like a line of fire, 'I need someone like you, someone with your darkness, to be on my side. On the side of the wolves.'

Stiles gasps as she flicks her claw up, tries not to grimace too much, 'I am on the side of the fucking wolves, Delilah, Jesus CHRIST.' He shouts as she stabs the claw in further, closing the shape she's carved just below his heart, and she snickers, 'Your tame little pack, with your tame little Argent? You were born to be a wolf, but they can't bite you without upsetting their pathetic little truce now can they?'

Stiles gapes at her, genuinely shocked by the turn things have taken. He's used to being the weak link, the tag-a-long human routinely kidnapped so that the pack will come and rescue him. Either that or the only one vulnerable enough to get possessed by a fucking Nogitsune. Whatever. The idea that Delilah sees him as something valuable for more than just his usefulness as bait is, momentarily, quite flattering. Then he realises what she's actually saying. 'It's nothing to do with a truce. I don't want the bite.' Stiles shakes his head, shakes his whole span _body_ to emphasise the point, and he feels the ropes slip on his wrists again. She just grins at him, wide and feral, 'You don't know what you are saying no to. Not really. All you have for an example are sweet Scott, Isaac, and _noble_ Derek-' She pauses to throw him a suggestive glance, which, God, not even. 'I will admit that Peter has his moments, but isn't he trying _so hard_?'

Her mouth is back at his ear, 'I don't give a shit about any of them. They are useless to me.' Stiles slithers his hands further through the ropes, disguising the movement with a shudder. 'I will give you the bite, and you will be the wolf that you were meant to be.' She drags her nose across his cheekbone, speaks so that her mouth is practically on his, 'I'll even let your little band of idiots alone, if you leave Beacon Hills as part of my pack. It isn't as though they'll survive long anyway, once the hunting begins.'

Stiles jerks, feels his hand slide free from the restraints and he's got the wolfsbane spray from his back pocket (which, _goddamnit_ the arrogance of leaving it there!) before Delilah can react. She howls when he gets her directly in the eyes, falling backward onto the faded linoleum. Stiles crouches for a moment, listens for any approaching footsteps, but it sounds as though Delilah really did want some alone time with him because he can't hear anything.

She's still writhing on the floor, so he rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck as he stands, gathers his flannel from the table and is about to walk out the door when she speaks, 'I will turn you, Stiles.' (That sibilant S makes his name sound horribly threatening) 'And I will kill anyone who gets in the way of my doing so.' Her voice is thick with pain, but when he looks back at her her eyes are open, glowing red barely discernible from the blown vessels spidering across the whites. 'So you better run, before I can get started on those closest to you.'

And, see, the thing is, Stiles knows that she means it. Delilah's like a female Deucalion, singularly fixated on what she wants, and it seems that what she wants is Stiles, _turned_. So as he races for his Jeep, still in the parking lot outside where she dragged him from it, he's turning over the options in his mind. It's only once Stiles has started the engine that he realises that he's driving away from Beacon Hills, because really it's his only choice. As long as he's with the pack they're never going to stop defending him, and Stiles is under no illusions that Scott's fledgling pack is anywhere near strong enough to take on Delilah's. So he steps on the gas and heads for the highway, only glancing back once to see the lights of the town fading in the distance. He's got no idea if he'll ever see it again.


	2. Everything You Touch Around Here

'He's following his instinct to protect the pack.' Deaton's tone is so reasonable that Derek feels like throwing him through a wall. It's an urge that he hasn't had in a while, and it takes every ounce of his self-control not to act on it. Something must show in his face anyway, as the vet's eyes flicker towards him before returning to Scott. Peter snickers quietly to Derek's left, but he ignores him. Behind them Isaac shifts his weight, distracting him from Peter, and Derek takes a moment to focus on breathing in and out steadily. Scott's talking now, and Derek tunes back into what they're saying. 'I just don't get why he wouldn't tell any of us where he's going. Not even his dad? This is _Stiles!_'

Sheriff Stilinski is leaning against the wall of Deaton's examination room. His mouth is drawn into a thin line of unhappiness that echoes the one on Chris's face next to him - only Chris has had over a year for that to become his neutral setting. Derek isn't sure how he'd cope if it became John's too. He grits his teeth and turns his gaze back to the letter on the metal table: a single sheet of cheap notebook paper that carries the faintest whiff of Stiles' scent. The postmark is Alberta but none of them believe it for a second. Stiles just isn't that dumb.

xxx

It's been two weeks since Scott and Derek arrived at the grocery store to find Delilah on the floor sucking Stiles' blood from her claws. The air had been thick with Stiles' anger and pain, but the boy himself was gone. Delilah had cackled when they'd stormed in, picking herself up off the floor to smirk at them. 'Just like I told him. _Pathetic_.' Her eyes had been bloodshot, but dancing with glee nonetheless. 'You want your man-cub back, boys? Because I'm afraid he's gone. He knows you can't protect him, not without getting yourselves killed.' Her eyes had settled on something over Derek's left shoulder and her grin had widened, 'Not even you, Bagheera, skulking in the shadows like always.' He'd glanced back, seen Peter standing frozen, his face a mask of fury.

The sick feeling in Derek's gut says it's true. They've spent most of the last twelve months trying to build a cohesive pack, and it's working, but since Kate was put down (Peter made sure that this time his claws severed her head) the main focus for most of the pack has been their senior year of school. They're no match, he knows, for a pack like Delilah's - more dangerous even than the Alphas because they operate on a strict and incorruptible hierarchy. With a mad, bloodthirsty bitch at the top of it.

She'd hauled herself up from the floor to stand nose-to-nose with Scott, who had bristled but stood his ground. 'I will have the man-cub,' she breathes, 'And when the hunters bring their war, he will stand with me.' She lets her gaze drift across Derek, then Peter and Isaac who Derek can feel in the shadows just behind, before returning her eyes to Scott's. 'I told him to run, because much as I hate to kill wolves, I span _will_ kill anyone who stands between us.' Derek scents Scott's anger, knows that his eyes must be blood-red, but Delilah just giggles, eyes black and controlled as they come back to rest Derek, and it's horrible, like a kick in the teeth, when at last she whispers, 'And he ran rather than see any of you get hurt.' She'd turned on her heel then, swished through the door with all the grace of a born predator, confident that none of them would follow her. It was sickening to know that she was right.

xxx

Lydia's chiming voice startles Derek out of his reverie. 'It's far from foolproof, and he'll know that we'll try.' She seems to be answering a question from Deaton, and Derek frowns, unsure what he's missed. Deaton glances at him again, sighs through his nose, and continues, 'So you're saying tracking him by car thefts is probably not going to work?' Lydia rolls her eyes, huffs as she pushes off from the wall. Derek feels Isaac stir minutely behind him as though there's an invisible string between him and Lydia. Derek brings his attention back to the girl, because he's not got the patience to wonder about those two for the time being. Lydia's taken up a position leaning against the examination table. Her attention is on the letter, her voice thoughtful when she speaks. It takes a moment before he realises she's reading Stiles' words aloud.

'Please don't try to follow me, because we've lost enough as it is. I couldn't stand to have any more of you dead because you think I need saving.' Lydia glances at Chris and Derek follows her gaze. Argent's face is impassive, but Allison's ghost sits in the downturned corners of his mouth. Beside him the Sheriff shifts, bringing a hand up to rest on the other man's shoulder. Loss reverberates in the space between the two of them, and Derek feels its echo in his own grief, carried so long it's as though he's never known anything else. And now there's a new weight added to it and he wonders, just for a moment, if it will be enough to send him under.

He lets the tapping of Lydia's nails on her laptop keys bring him back to himself. She's biting her lip in concentration, eyes bright and focussed. 'You said they found his jeep in Flagstaff?' Her question is directed at the Sheriff, who nods an affirmative. Her fingers keep up their flight over the keys, eyes flicking back and forth across whatever's on her screen. She pauses, nods once. 'OK, there were only eight auto thefts in Flagstaff that week. Of which...' She squints at the screen '...three were found within city limits. Two as yet undiscovered. One found...' She stands up, looks up at the Sheriff, 'One Toyota Camry found burnt out four days ago, in Denver.'

Derek's mind is already whirring with possibilities. Denver puts Stiles at the intersection of at least two highways, and Lydia's right, he'd know that if he follows the same MO of stealing cars, or even moving in the same direction, they'd be able to track him. He meets Lydia's gaze, sees his own frustration reflected there. Of all the pack to be on the run Stiles or Lydia is the nightmare because they're not only the cleverest, they're also the most devious. And Stiles knows that Lydia will be onto him, so he'll be deliberately trying to evade her, which means it's going to be almost impossible to catch up with him. Derek feels the growl building in his throat, feels his claws pricking at his palms before he can think to control the shift.

And then suddenly Isaac's got his arm, is pulling him out of the room and out of the building, into the cool of the parking lot where they stand in silence, surrounded by the sounds of the night, whilst Derek struggles to get himself under control. When he finally looks up at Isaac he's watching him with a wry expression on his face. 'It's the worst, isn't it?'

Derek huffs something that he hopes sounds a bit like a laugh, 'I don't really know what you mean.' It's a lie, and Isaac will hear that it's a lie, but Derek isn't ready to compare losing Stiles to losing Allison. Losing something that you aren't sure how to put a name to. He feels himself straining even now to catch the cadence of a voice that he hasn't heard in a fortnight, to catch Stiles' scent as more than the stale whiff wrapped in a letter carried north by some unsuspecting tourist.

Isaac's still watching him, his expression so much less legible than Scott's. He opens his mouth as though he's about to say something, and then Lydia comes clattering out to the lot, shattering the quiet understanding between the two wolves. 'Too many auto thefts in Denver to find anything promising, and the fact that it sits on Highways 25, 70 and 80 means that he probably hitched a ride.' She stops, glancing between the two of them, then continues in a softer voice. 'Deaton's right, you know. He's doing it to protect us, Derek. To protect _you_. Misguided as it may seem.' She folds her arms, taps a heel on the ground and shares an unreadable look with Isaac. These two, Derek thinks, have been dancing around one another for long enough already. But ghosts linger, even ghosts of people who aren't dead.

He looks up and sees Deaton and Scott watching him from the doorway, where they're stood with the Sheriff and Chris. Suddenly everything, all this weight of eyes that aren't the _right_ eyes, all this seeing of things that he'd been too dense to see while they were right there in front of him, is too much for Derek, and with a snarl he's wolfing out and running, deep into the woods where Stiles never was and therefore nothing can be stained by his absence.


	3. I've Lost Direction

By the time he arrives in New York in early October he's sick of running. There's a crick in his neck that could be a result of sleeping rough but it seems much more likely that it's from constantly checking over his shoulder. After ditching his Jeep somewhere around Flagstaff (right around the same time he went through his Adderall withdrawal...that was a tough few days) it's been a series of stolen cars and thumbing lifts from surly truckers ever since. He'd burnt out the last Chevy somewhere outside Scranton a fortnight ago and he's fairly certain that they lost his scent before that.

Delilah's pack is nothing if not persistent, but they're not exactly subtle either and he's seen neither hair nor tail of any of them for at least three weeks. After three months winding back and forth across the country Stiles is just tired, and he's nearly burned through the cash that he withdrew in Sacramento before he tossed his cards, so like many before him he determines to lose himself amidst the bright lights of the big city.

Stiles is no innocent - he knows that a face like his will be enough to survive on in a city like New York. And in any case, he reasons to himself, watching the lights grow brighter and bigger as the bus approaches the Hudson, he may as well check out Morningside Heights before he makes the move up for Columbia next year. Given that he's apparently on the supernatural lam it's probably pretty pointless, but hey, he's nothing if not an optimist, and why let a near-perfect SAT score go to waste just because of psychotic werewolf stalkers?

The first chill of autumn is settling across the streets when he emerges from Penn Station, and his face, when he catches his reflection in a window, looks lean and hungry, shadows pooling beneath his cheekbones and bleeding into dirty stubble. It's a stranger's face, and Stiles shudders and trudges on. He needs something to eat, and for maybe the first time in his life he looks as though he could use a shave, so he grabs a hot dog from a street vendor and sets off north along the edge of the park, with a vague idea of finding somewhere to sleep that preferably has running water and cockroaches smaller than his palm.

It's a couple hours later and night has truly fallen when he passes Archie's. The bar is small, tucked away between a bodega and an apartment block that had probably seen better days thirty years ago. There's absolutely nothing remarkable about the neon sign outside, nor of what he can see through the grimy windows. But something makes him pause and that's when he spots it, tucked into a corner of the window: a small sign, the size of a business card, a stylised triskelion and the words 'Waifs and Strays Welcomed.'

Stiles stops dead on the sidewalk, hearing sirens and shouting and the too-fast beating of his own pulse in his ears. In the street cars swish past, splashing through patches of oily water, and still Stiles doesn't move. He feels as though his tongue has stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his hands are sweaty where they clutch the straps of his rucksack, white-knuckled. He's not sure how much time passes before he makes the decision to push open the door, but he knows that this is either a great idea or a terrible one. Either way, it's the first break he's had in three months, and he's taking it.

There's a tall redhead behind the bar who eyes him when he throws himself onto a stool, but she doesn't immediately tell him to get out so Stiles figures he might as well try his luck. A quick glance around confirms that he's the only customer so he grins his most winning smile, the one that never cuts any shit with his dad (his dad, who he misses as though he cut off a limb), and figures he might as well get straight into it.

'Is there an Alpha here that I can speak to? Or just, you know, someone in charge? And maybe could I get a beer?' The redhead's eyebrow slides upwards in an uncannily Derek-esque expression, and Stiles feels a twinge somewhere in his chest area. She saunters down the bar and holds out a hand, showing off a terrifying set of midnight-blue nails that bear a more than passing resemblance to talons. 'Gonna need to see some ID, sugar.' Her voice is husky and very...deep...and, holy hell Stiles realises that's an adam's apple. He lets his mouth open and close on empty air for a couple of beats, during which that perfectly arched eyebrow manages to climb even higher. Then he's fumbling in his pocket for the fake ID that he bought in Austin, and tries his best to look like Stan Serafinowicz, two months past his twenty-first birthday.

The barmaid (because despite that deep voice, she looks like a she) holds onto it for a moment, gaze flicking between Stiles's real face and Stan's expression of surprised discomfort, before sliding it back across the bar top. 'That's fake as shit.' Her voice is flat, the vowels a Southern-sounding drawl which does nothing to soften the blow of her words. 'Archie doesn't talk to liars, and we don't serve underage.' Stiles swallows his disappointment, tries to look less as though he's about to cry, and starts slipping off the stool. However, he's probably not doing as good a job as he thought of keeping a lid on things because as he goes to grab the ID the barmaid places a large but gentle hand on top of his. Stiles looks up, meeting dark eyes, as dark as Delilah's, but where hers' were cold and empty the barmaid is looking at him with a flicker of warmth.

She holds his gaze for nearly a minute, her expression pensive, then she releases his hand, steps back, 'You're a long way from home aren't you, honey?' Stiles tries to keep his breathing even and nods, short and sharp. His new acquaintance's expression softens, and she sighs gently. 'I'll need a real name before Archie'll speak to you, and,' She glances up towards the ceiling as though she can see through it, 'He'll probably also want some idea of how you've wound up here.'

Those eyes search his face again and Stiles nearly flinches, he's got so unused to kindness and concern. And then he's talking, more words than it feels like he's said in one go in months. 'Stiles. My name is Stiles. My pack's in California, they don't know where I am.' He takes another deep breath, 'There was another pack. From Mexico I think. The Alpha...wanted...me, and people were going to get hurt...' He trails off, feeling his throat tighten, and looks up. The barmaid's head is cocked in the way that Scott's does sometimes when he's listening for a lie, and her nostrils are gently flared, which is all the indication that Stiles needs that she's a wolf. He waits a moment, still aware of his own pulse in his ears, a little quick but even enough, and he watches carefully as some sort of decision settles across her face.

When she gives a nod and starts towards a door at the end of the bar it's all he can do not to sag with relief. His mouth is open to say thank you, but he doesn't get the chance, because she's already talking: 'My name's Libby, by the way. No matter what it says on my driver's licence. Which isn't fake, unlike some.' She wiggles the eyebrow again, pouts a little and beckons with her midnight-blue manicure until Stiles realises that she's waiting for him to follow her into the back, and then he's gathering up his tattered rucksack and biting his tongue to keep from incomprehensibly babbling his gratitude.

Through the door there's a kitchen where a thick-set cook gives Stiles the eye and makes what sounds like a suggestive comment in Spanish, which shouldn't make him flinch but it does. Libby registers that, he sees, and the cook gets eyebrows of death (seriously, so very Derek) before she turns up a small staircase and knocks on the door at the top. Stiles hears a throat being cleared, then a soft voice calls, 'Come in.'

Libby twists the handle and stands aside for Stiles to step into a well-proportioned, book-lined office with low lighting and an impressive antique desk in the middle. Behind the desk is a nondescript looking guy with tired blue eyes and slightly mussed brown hair that's just this side of being in need of a cut. He smiles faintly as Libby hovers behind Stiles, then he makes a gentle motion at her with his hand that seems to indicate that she can go.

Stiles is left to shift his weight from foot to foot and try not to make too much eye contact, looking instead at all the books that have started spilling off the many shelves lining the walls and are now stacking up in neat piles that seem to be gradually encroaching on the room itself. Something about this amount of knowledge makes Stiles' mouth water a bit, and he's sufficiently distracted with wondering what sort of bar owner accrues this many books when the guy clears his throat again, making Stiles turn his attention back to him.

He's emerged from behind his desk and is leaning back against it, arms crossed in a way that's neither threatening nor hostile, just inscrutable. A solid ten on Stiles' mental 'Hale-scale of inscrutability' in fact. Stiles is a little freaked that he's managed to move so far without him noticing, because he's basically been practising constant vigilance for the last few years, but there's something about the guy, Archie, he guesses, that exudes trustworthiness. In that way, he reminds Stiles a bit of Scott. Or how Scott's going to be when he has the Alpha thing totally down, at least, because Scott still can't help pasting his every emotion across his face. So maybe Archie's like Scott with a few of Derek's more useful teachings thrown in, because, despite the fact that Stiles knows he's telegraphing grief and distress and exhaustion, Archie gives nothing away, his mouth a relaxed line that isn't quite a smile, one eyebrow ever so slightly raised.

Stiles is aware if the silence stretching between them as he eyeballs Archie, and isn't sure whether he should it out or start talking. But let's face it, silence isn't really his forte, so he opens his mouth and starts with, 'So...' Which is all it takes apparently, because the smile ticks up at the edge of Archie's mouth, 'So...you must be the Stilinski kid.'

And this is so not at all what Stiles was expecting that he's almost back to flailing a little the way he would when he was sixteen and this all started, and for just a moment Archie's smile becomes a full-on grin, which lights his face in a way that really is totally Scott-like. 'Relax. Talia Hale was very well-connected, and Alan Deaton has quite the network too. As soon as you disappeared he put the word out to relevant parties to be on the watch for cocky eighteen-year-olds possibly sporting fake IDs.'

Stiles swallows, heartbeat returning to something not too far from normal. 'Did Libby know who I am?' Archie shakes his head, unfolds his arms to place both hands flat on the desktop. 'I'm the only one who knows to look out for you. But we get quite a few strays through here, so Libby knows the type.' He pauses, seems to listen for a moment before continuing quietly, 'It wasn't that long ago that she turned up on my doorstep. Not all packs tolerate...everything.' His mouth sort of tips down on one side, and Stiles realises that he can frown with it as well as smile, and he decides then and there that he likes a dude who can express such eloquent disapproval without saying anything. 'Unfortunately,' Archie continues, 'interference in that sort of thing from someone like me doesn't go over too well. Which brings us to your problem with Delilah.'

Stiles stiffens at the name, tries not to think about the still-pink scar in the shape of the letter D sits low on his left ribs. Archie goes on as though he hasn't noticed, 'This recruitment drive of hers really isn't on, especially when she's trying to turn human mates against their will-'

'Hold on,' Stiles holds up a hand, just realising what Archie had said, 'I'm nobody's mate. I'm more of a mascot with latent magical aptitude.' Something in his tone causes Archie's eyebrows to twitch in surprise, but then he smiles gently, 'That must have been my mistake. I think perhaps I interpreted Deaton's explanation slightly wrong.' As far as Stiles can see he isn't lying, and when you hang out with werewolves for three years you develop a pretty good eye for tells. If only so that everyone's on a level playing field.

Archie turns his hands over, palms open and placatory, 'Delilah's pack left Beacon Hills pretty much as soon as you ran, but I'm sure you were counting on that happening.' He seems to be waiting for Stiles to respond so he nods, and Archie continues, 'That means that your pack is safe, for now. But the reports I'm getting suggest that she's still looking for you, and the only way to stop that is either for you to accept the bite,' Stiles grimaces eloquently, and Archie's mouth ticks up ruefully, 'Which is what I thought. So the other option is for her to no longer be a going concern. And my guess is that you know that that's a lot easier said than done, and the reason you ran is because you didn't want to force it to come to that while the McCall pack is still relatively weak.'

Stiles feels his shoulders slump, because there's a huge difference between reaching a conclusion and having someone else spell it out for you. He feels Archie's piercing gaze on him, so he glances up to meet his eyes, and receives a small, genuine smile for his trouble. 'So now you're here, and last I heard Delilah was in Rochester two days ago.' Stiles' surprise must show on his face, because Archie stops to nod at him, 'Yeah, you did a good job shaking her.' There's a pause, where the man taps his fingers gently against the edge of his desk, 'So I guess the question is what you do next, because it's not like you can just head back to Beacon Hills...'

Stiles shakes his head, 'No, I know that I need to stay away.' He swallows. It's the first time he's acknowledged it aloud. 'I was going to try my luck here in New York. I mean, I figure, the city's big enough...' He trails off, not wanting to finish the thought of what would happen if Delilah were to catch up with him.

Archie nods slowly, 'You know, Stiles, that sign isn't in the window for nothing. You're welcome to stay here as long as you want, under my protection.' Archie's face is open and earnest, no trace of disingenuousness detectable in his expression or his voice. Stiles feels a surge of hope, and the beginnings of a smile tug at his lips, before something occurs to him: 'But if I don't want Delilah's pack can't find me here, then I guess that means that Scott's can't know where I am either?'

Archie shakes his head, pursing his lips ever so slightly, 'But, with your permission, I would prefer to let them know you're alright, if only by passing a message to Deaton...'

Despite the stinging disappointment (because really, did he expect to just be able to get the whole pack out here?) Stiles feels himself smirk at this, and he sees surprise register on Archie's face. 'Yeah...about the letting them know I'm okay part...Deaton didn't tell you?'

'I haven't heard from him since he called me at the end of June.' Stiles nods, because this makes sense, actually, the pack are hardly going to be updating everyone on Stiles' missing-person status until he's no longer missing. 'Yeah, well. I've been sending letters.' Archie's brow furrows, and he seems about to interrupt Stiles, who holds up a hand, 'I'm not- I'm not that stupid. Just, every time I've met a tourist, I've asked them to post a letter for me when they get home. To my dad. So at least he knows I'm alive. Allison made me and Scott watch Amélie once and she does this thing where she sends her dad's garden gnome off...' he stops talking, because the thought of Allison is painful and in any case, Archie's grin is back, and he's shaking his head almost admiringly. 'Well kiddo, that's pretty damn smart.'

They're both quiet for a beat, and then Archie's expression sobers, 'So saying you do want to stay in one place,' Stiles nods eagerly at this, and Archie holds up a hand, 'Yes, that's what I'm offering, but we'll need to work something out.' He frowns ever so slightly, 'Because no two ways about it, Delilah will try New York eventually, and although I can throw her off your scent that's all the more reason that this will be one of the first places that she's going to look for you.' Stiles feels his mouth tighten, the idea of Delilah eventually turning up, probably just when he'd started to feel safe again, has him almost overwhelmed, not sure whether to laugh or cry, and then Archie's right in front of him, hand clasping his shoulder, 'We'll think of something.' His voice is gentle, and certain, and it reminds Stiles so much of his dad that he feels himself about to let go.

As ever when Stiles knows he's about to cry he forces himself to think about anything else, and unfortunately Delilah's still at the front of his mind. 'She said there was going to be a war, between the wolves and the hunters. Do you think she's right?' Archie's mouth tightens almost imperceptibly, and he drops his hand from Stiles' shoulder to turn back to his desk. 'As ever, Delilah fails to see the bigger picture.' He looks back at Stiles, 'There is always the threat of war. The balance of peace is too delicate, and few of us have the subtlety to preserve it. But by going out of her way to turn those whom she wants on her side, Delilah is making war inevitable rather than probable.'

Stiles nods. 'So do you think, if it does come to that, your pack will be with her?'

He's surprised, and slightly unsettled, when Archie smiles, 'I'm not an Alpha, Stiles, I don't have a pack.'

Stiles frowns, 'But Libby was taking me to her Alpha...'

'No, Libby was taking you to the person in charge here. Which is me. But there's a reason that I can protect you when few others can, and it's got nothing to do with being the head of a pack.' Stiles feels his frown deepen, knows he's on the edge of something that's going to have his mind whirring for a good while yet, and Archie seems to sense this, because all at once he's moving past Stiles to open the door, 'Why don't we ignore the fact that the ID you're carrying is a fake, and get you a beer? You're probably going to need one.'

Stiles isn't sure what to think as he follows Archie down the stairs and back to the bar, where Libby smiles and pops the caps on three beers. He's frightened, excited, and terribly sad all at the same time. He doesn't yet feel safe here but he desperately wants to trust Archie, for all his mysteriousness, and so he gives into the stirrings of hope. Hope that finally, finally he might have found the beginning of something and not the end of it.


	4. I Never Try to Find You

Derek wakes after too few hours' sleep to the irritating buzz of his cellphone. It's early morning, weak sunlight just beginning to wash through the bare windows of his bedroom. Without raising his head from the pillow he swipes the phone from his nightstand and presses it to his ear, ''Lo?'

He doesn't know what he's expecting, but a crisp British accent is not it. 'Mr Hale?'

Derek does his best not to groan, 'Speaking?'

'This is Ariadne Bosworth, Mr Hale.' The name tickles something at the back of Derek's mind, but he's still addled with sleep, so he says nothing and waits for the woman to continue. 'I was a friend of your mother's, and of your sister?'

Ariadne Bosworth. Derek sits up in bed, remembers Laura's face, white and emotionless, as she repeated that name into the receiver at Beacon Hills Sheriff's Department the night of the fire. 'What can I do for you, Ms Bosworth?'

'Please call me Ariadne - I hope you don't mind my calling you Derek?' He grumbles an affirmative, 'Lovely! It's about the apartment that you and Laura took while you were here in New York, Derek. As you know I am the President of the New York chapter of the Werewolves Association of America...' Derek had forgotten this, it's making his head spin, '...and my people inform me that your apartment has stood empty for quite some time. Since it's in one of my family's buildings I was wondering if you had any intention of selling it. Only, if that were the case, I'd very much like to make you an offer.'

For a moment Derek is lost in his memories: arriving in New York with Laura, trailing behind her as they entered the lobby of a building on the Upper East Side. The fragile-looking blonde who'd met them there, her eyes steely but kind as she closed Laura's fingers over a set of keys. The tight smile that she'd given Derek when he met her gaze. His mother's friend, Ariadne Bosworth.

'I'd pretty much forgotten I still had it, Ariadne.'

He hears her smile even if he can't see her face, 'I thought that may be the case, Derek. From what I hear, you have had quite enough to deal with in California these last few years. But with the property market so strong I would, as I say, be happy to take it off your hands, if you were so inclined...?'

Derek's brain seems to have finally woken up, and he's running through everything that they left in the apartment when he and Laura returned to Beacon Hills. Nothing so valuable that it couldn't be replaced, he thinks, but he'd like to go through Laura's stuff and check. With a jolt he realises that there may well be some photos, the few that they managed to salvage from the wreck of the house, and before he knows it he's making a decision.

'Would it be alright with you if we arranged the sale in person? I'd like to check the apartment's contents myself before we finalise anything.'

'Oh Derek, of course! It would be a pleasure to see you again after all this time. When should I expect you?'

Derek gives himself a few days to get things in order in Beacon Hills, tells Ariadne that he'll see her at the beginning of next week, and promises to send her his travel details - 'I won't hear of you getting the train into the city, I'll have a driver at JFK to collect you' - before hanging up. Isaac's been stood in his doorway for the last couple of minutes, his face and scent all curiosity, and after hanging up Derek turns to him with the vague impression of having been completely blindsided. 'So I guess I'm going to New York next week.'

xxx

Lydia smiles with delight when Derek announces his plans, 'It's so pretty in the winter, Derek, this is a great idea!' And these days Lydia always comes with a free side order of Isaac, and of course then Scott goes all 'True-Alphas-don't-let-their-Betas-go-cross-country-unsupervised.' Apparently, he doesn't see the irony of casting himself in some sort of supervisory role. At the mention of Ariadne's name Peter's expression goes worryingly blank, so after a lengthy conversation in Chris's sound-proofed basement he and Scott agree that the older Hale will remain behind in Beacon Hills, supervised by the Hunter and the Sheriff.

And that's how Derek ends up with Scott, Isaac and Lydia in a Limo heading up Park Avenue the following Monday afternoon.

He'd forgotten how much of a sensory assault New York was, and judging by Isaac and Scott's faces Derek isn't the only one feeling shellshocked. Lydia's leaning her head against the window, making occasional breathy sighs of contentment and absently petting Isaac's leg. Trust her to feel totally at home here. Derek turns his eyes back out towards the hundred and one interesting things that seem to appear with every new block, and for just a second he thinks back to the morning that Stiles got his early acceptance letter for Columbia. He'd turned up at the loft, scent a jumbled mess of joy and nervousness, to crow his excitement at Derek and Isaac: 'NEW YORK CITY, BABY! Hey Derek, you reckon the Big Apple's ready for Stilinski?' Derek had thrown a pillow at him, told him to fuck off or make himself useful by turning on the coffeemaker. Stiles had grinned, his eyes dancing, 'I knew you'd be thrilled for me, Der-bear.'

It's late January now. That was over a year ago, and Stiles has been gone for nearly half that time. The last postcard arrived from Melbourne in early December, note cryptic as ever ('Loads of oversized and very tempting fruit here. Feel like I'm never going to get any shut-eye'). It's been a while since Derek's let himself miss Stiles enough to take off into the woods, but he knows his scent is throwing out grief and pain from the sudden quiet in the car, so he hastens to think about other things. 'How does this city manage to be so absurdly fucking cold?' Scott snorts, jostling Derek with his shoulder just a little too hard as he leans past him to look out of the window, 'I mean, you're the one who lived here. But yeah. Crazy East-Coast weather.' Derek smiles slightly, wondering, for all McCall's goofiness, when he became so grateful to have him for an Alpha.

A couple of minutes later the car is pulling up outside Ariadne's apartment building and the four of them clamber out, stretching in the frigid air, watching their breath blossom in front of their faces. The smiling doorman lets them into the lobby where a young wolf in jeans and a t-shirt is waiting for them, bouncing on the balls of his feet but stilling as they approach. Despite the fact that the boy is blonde and grey-eyed there's something very familiar about that obvious lack of patience, and Derek knows from the others' scents that it isn't just his sudden wistfulness making the comparison. The boy's gaze skitters across them, unable to account for the wave of sadness that just rolled across the group, before returning to settle on Scott.

'Alpha McCall.' Scott nods, and the boy continues, 'My mom's really glad that you were able to come with Derek - I mean Mr Hale -' The kid coughs to cover his embarrassment '- to New York. She's been looking forward to meeting you for a while now.' This is news to all of them, but Derek does his best not to show his surprise and he knows the others will be doing the same. The boy glances across the group again, his smile turning bright and eager, 'Come with me, Mom's waiting upstairs.'

They follow him into the lift, which is huge and mirrored to feel even bigger, and the kid presses the button for the penthouse. He smiles aimlessly into the silence, and then his eyes go wide, 'I'm so stupid! I feel like I sort of know you guys already because I've heard loads about you. I'm Jonathan, Ariadne's son.' He coughs again. 'Obviously.'

Derek would sense Lydia's slight frown even if he couldn't see it in the mirror where she's standing in front of him, but it's Isaac who asks the obvious question. 'Where have you heard loads about us from?'

Jonathan's smile freezes, but his heartbeat remains steady as he waves a vague hand in the air, 'Oh, you know. Around. That whole thing with the Argents.' His eyes flick over Scott's reflection next to his own and he continues hastily, 'You're basically famous.'

It's the truth, but even so it's clearly not the whole truth, and Jonathan must know that they're all aware of it because he breathes an audible sigh of relief as they reach the penthouse floor and the lift doors slide open, 'We're here! MOM! They're HERE!'

Ariadne appears at one end of the tastefully decorated hallway, her smile only slightly pained as she takes in her son and her guests. Seeing her there Derek feels his memories of her crystallise, and he realises that she's barely changed at all in the decade since he arrived in New York with Laura. She has the same ash-blonde hair and grey eyes as her son, but where he's gangly and uncoordinated she's petite and delicate, apparently unthreatening until you catch her eye and see that steeliness that Derek remembers.

'Alpha McCall.' She extends a hand to Scott, her smile guarded, but there's that warmth in her eyes. Her head is cocked ever so slightly, exposing her slim neck beneath her hair. Scott pauses for a brief moment, then takes her hand in his, moving his head to show his throat in a mirror-image of her posture, declaring himself her equal. Derek feels a surge of pride in his Alpha, checks himself before Ariadne moves to greet him next. The warmth moves from her eyes into her smile as she takes his hand in both her small ones. 'Derek. I'm sure I remember you better than you do me. It is a pleasure nonetheless to see you again, and, if I may say,' Her expression is gentle, kind even, 'You seem to be doing very well.'

He smiles, knowing that it is tight on his face. He cannot stop the assault of Stiles, for some reason, as though leaving Beacon Hills for the first time since he ran away has brought them closer. This in spite of the fact that for all that they have been able to turn up Stiles may as well be on the fucking moon. Ariadne has moved on to greet Isaac and Lydia, and Derek takes a moment to look around the hallway. The walls are cream-painted, lined with expensive looking artwork that he knows, without checking, is original. A marble sideboard runs the length of the room, a bunch of scentless white roses in the middle of it; the rest of the surface is taken up with a selection of black and white photographs in silver frames.

Derek steps closer, curiosity piqued. None are formal portraits - they all seem to have been taken at parties or on days out. He sees a younger Ariadne with a dark-haired man whose face is the same shape as Jonathan's. A little further along is a picture of the boy, wearing a suit and talking to a girl who is looking at the camera and has the same eyes as him and his mother. Next to it a man with messy brown hair has his arm around a smiling Ariadne's waist. A couple of frames away the same man, with a few more laughter-lines, stands between two girls, one dark and one blonde, all three of them laughing open-mouthed at the camera. There's something about the blonde - Derek's seen her before, he's sure of it. He's on the point of leaning in for a better look at her face when Ariadne's voice at his elbow steals his attention away.

'I was just saying Derek, you must let me take all of you to dinner. It's been such a long time and I'm terribly curious to hear about your pack. I'm so very glad of your success.' Her smile is genuine, and there's no hint of a lie in her heartbeat or her scent, but just like with Jonathan in the lift earlier Derek can't shake the sense that there is something that he's missing. He glances at the boy, standing awkwardly at the end of the hallway, and Jonathan shifts his gaze immediately in such a way that Derek knows that he was staring.

As Ariadne moves towards the kitchen, beckoning them to follow, Derek shares a quick look with Scott and Isaac, and it's all he needs to know that he isn't alone in his suspicions. Good as the housing market may be at the moment, he isn't in New York because Ariadne Bosworth wants to buy his apartment.


End file.
